what's the story, morning glory?
by but seriously
Summary: In which Elena is ready to walk down the aisle with none other than Nate Archibald, but both the Salvatores and the Non-Judging Breakfast Club are hellbent on stopping them. / delena, elenanate, klaroline, dair & others ::ensemble cast:: / FOR DJ


HELLO AND WELCOME TO MY CROSSOVER OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. I wrote this months ago before going away to camp, and in my mind it was going to be just one long oneshot, but then I thought "_hell with this_" and decided to post it up anyway, because I hadn't written anything in so long and maybe this would, I dunno, get me out of the rut I'm stuck in? Writer's block is utterly consuming, yo.

This is for DJ, because (a) she dared me to write Delena and (b) everything I write is for her anyway, what with her being my transatlantic twin and all that jazz.

So I'm just going to put it out there: here there be damon/elena, nate/elena, klaus/caroline, dan/blair and various other pairings. Also, if you've been reading the teasers on my tumblr/lj you'd know that Katherine and The Originals are in here as well.

DECIDEDLY AU BECAUSE GOSSIP GIRL SUX AND I DON'T WATCH ANYMORE.

k, here we go. enjoy!

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**what's the story, morning glory?**

**part un**

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**1000**

Nate remembers the first time he held a gun. Grandfather standing by his side with a hand on his shoulder and Tripp on his left, he raised it sky high and shot it straight into the sun. The crack of the gun lasted longer than his eyes could follow the bullet, but Grandfather's grin was so huge it was a wonder his face didn't split in half.

He squints down the length of the Remington 857, presses two fingers to the magazine. "Feels good."

"Spoken like a true Vanderbilt." He'd clapped Nate's arm one last time before strolling down the lawn into the Vanderbilt House, Tripp trailing by his side. Tripp looks back once - to cast Nate a look of... _something_. He can't really place it.

The sky's blue and the grass is greener than he's ever seen. He considers, for a fleeting second, looking for the stray bullet before any of the horses get to it, but he hears familiar footsteps trudging - no, not trudging, God forbid if Blair Waldorf ever did anything in manly gaits - in his direction.

Blair sidles up to him with a glass of lemonade in hand, an absolute vision with her sun-kissed skin and a flowered headband in her hair. "You looked great, Nate." Her Vanderbilt promise ring glints on her finger and he swallows involuntarily, hesitating on the simple task of reaching for the chilled drink.

As Blair chatters beside him in her yellow sundress, he sips his drink and thinks this must be what the sound of settling is like. Visits to Grandfather's on the weekends, cold lemonade on warm afternoons, ivy-covered brownstones and a waiting list on only the most prestigious schools for their future children...

Abruptly, he drops the tumbler to the ground and cocks his gun skywards, letting loose a couple more rounds. Blair shrieks, her neat hair flying everywhere in glossy curls, and Nate takes deep breathes, running a finger down the barrel of his shotgun.

"A little warning would've been nice," Blair grouses, but it's all Nate can do to keep the smile off his face. He offers her his arm and rests his Remington by his side, where it hums with every step they take.

**0990**

He senses sunshine on his cheeks and pancakes in the air and lilac on his lips.

Usually he wakes up with hair in his mouth and a warm weight on his chest, toes tangled together like a child's first lace-up shoe. He'll wake up to groggy giggles and coffee that's always too hot, too bitter, but intermediately just right. This morning all he feels are cold sheets when he reaches an arm across the bed.

He licks his lips - sweet and heady, like honeysuckle - and forces an eye open. The sun filters through the white drapes across his window in a way that's almost delicate, but hits his pupils with the force of a thousand laser beams. There's something dried and dead in the back of his throat and he groans, reaching for the alarm clock. She'd let him sleep in, even when he'd specifically told her not to, _again_.

"Morning, sleepy head."

Stretching, he turns to see her in one of his Brooks Brothers shirts, leaning casually against his doorframe, long fingers wrapped around a coffee mug.

"G'morning," he croaks, and tried sits up. He ends up slumped against the headboard instead. "Where's Chuck?"

"Still sleeping off his hangover." She traipses to where he is and drops the mug into his waiting hands. "I made breakfast, and there's two aspirin waiting for you on the counter."

He sets the mug on the bedside table and tugs her down onto the bed with him, holding on tight when she attempts to squirm away. "You're a saint. Back to bed."

"Nate!" she squeals, wriggling away. "It's eleven o'clock. I'm going to miss class—I'm already late as it is."

"So miss it," is all he says. He breaths in the smell of her freshly-washed hair, all lilac and sunshine, and feels a smile curving on his lips. She allows him a moment to tangle his fingers into her hair, press a whisper of a kiss on her temple, trace a finger along her jaw before she pulls away, with the smallest of pouts on her lips.

"I'd love to, but I can't," she says. "Finals are next week." She rolls out of bed, grabs her messenger bag resting at the floor of the bed, and loops a vibrant scarf around her neck. "Not everyone can afford Columbia - some have to work off their scholarships." There's no bitterness in her voice as she pokes his side. "Go back to bed if you want, but don't forget the aspirin."

"Bye," he calls, forlorn, and tugs her down for one lass kiss. She laughs against his lips and flits out of the room, leaving him bemoaning last night's tequila shots against his pillow.

**0980**

She hadn't left ten minutes before he hears his BlackBerry vibrate. A good bye text, he guesses hopefully. _She's so cute,_he thinks as he reaches for his phone with a smile coming together on his lips - until he sees that it's not a text, it's a phone call.

_Hello no_, his buzzed mind snips. _Too early_. Somehow the tiny voice in the back of his mind always sounds like Jenny.

But it's Blair, he argues, running an exasperated hand over his face.

_Nate_. Oh, he can so picture the trademark Humphrey eyebrow-raise. _You're clearly too shitfaced to string a coherent sentence together. Blair's going to eat you alive._

...But it's _Blair_.

_You asked for it..._

He groans and hits answer. "Blair," he says, voice gruff from sleep. "What's u—"

"_Nathaniel Fitzwilliam Archibald!_"

Oh shit. "What is it this time?" he moans, rolling over so his face is smothered in his pillow. "If it's about Dan, I already told him you don't like people touching your first edition Tolstoy—"

"That problem's been fixed, no thanks to y—urgh, Serena says hi," she says. "Anyway, I'm calling because—_yes, I told him you said hi_—"

"Hi, Serena." Nate smiles wanly. "How's Paris?"

"It's great!" she trills. "Blair's got a _date_—"

"Which, while being deserving my outmost attention right now, doesn't hold a candle to what I'm about to say to you!" Blair fumes, but is cut off by Serena's muffled response.

"Placate your best friend, she's being a—what does Dan call it? A dictator? Yeah." He tries to put on his best _you need to calm down_voice. "Blair, you're being an Evil Dictator of Taste again."

It doesn't work. "Can it, Archibald."

In the background, Serena laughs. "_I'm sure it's not that bad, Blair_," she says. "No hazing, no schemes-just ask."

"Fine," snaps his ex-girlfriend. "What's your deal, Nate? I—_we_—have to find out you have a girlfriend though _Facebook_?"

Nate's eyes snap open. Oh _shit_. "Okay, I understand why you might be mad—"

"Mad doesn't even begin to cover it," Blair screeches through the phone. "_'Nate Archibald is in a relationship_?' Why does that sound so ominous and _why_isn't there a link to her profile?"

Nate blows out a gust of air. "Serena?" he asks hopefully.

"On your own, Nate." Serena says. There's the distinct sound of the phone being grabbed from hands as Blair's voice fills his ear once again.

"Well?" she demands.

Nate begins slowly, "She has really possessive exes—"

(Surprise, surprise) Blair cuts him off. "Of _course_you choose the girl lugging around the biggest baggage there is—"

"—her name's Elena, and she's from Virgi—no, Blair, do _not_look her up-"

His phone is practically blasted apart by the shriek Blair's emitting.

"Pin-straight _unstyled_hair? Really, Nate? And what colour palette are her highlights? My highly-trained eyes can't place them at all."

"That's because those aren't highlights," Nate says with a faint hint of pride. "It's her natural hair colour."

"_It's her natural hair colour,"_Nate hears Blair hissing furiously to Serena. To Nate, she announces, "We're getting on the first flight home. Tonight."

Serena sighs. "Don't you think you're overreacting, B?"

"Look, Blair - I know you're worried about me, what with Juliet and Char—Ivy, whatever." Nate shakes his head. "But I'm fine. In fact, better than fine. I have something to tell you."

"By all means, spill. I don't think anything could be worse this."

Nate takes a deep breath. "Actually..."

**0970**

Against the silver backdrop of the morning sky, the roll of the ocean waves seem almost languorous as they wash over his toes, seeping into his sand-caked jeans and rolling over his chest. It's soothing, he thinks, as the water washes away some of the sand, because there's sand everywhere—in his hair, in his fingernails, in the crevices of his clothing and in places he'd rather not mention.

In the distance, a bird whoops and the waves crash and collide with the slick black rocks that make up the base of the nondescript island.

Damon stretches a hand out, rakes his fingers through the wet sand surrounding him, and brushes a shell off his cheek as he slowly awakens. He stretches again, hearing his joints—stiff from his night on the beach—crack and pop.

_Crack and pop_, he snickers in his slightly inebriated state. _I'm Cap'n Crunch_—wait. His eyebrows come together and he wonders if he'd gotten it all mixed up. After a few minutes of thought it finally comes to him. _Rice Krispies_, man. Rice Krispies snap and crackle and pop. It's not Cap'n Crunch, he _had_ gotten them wrong.

"I'm not Captain Crunch," he notes with a sorrowful tune to his sigh.

"That you're not," pipes up a voice from his side and Damon jumps about a mile, turning on his side only to land face-first in the sand. He resurfaces, looking very much like a drowned seagull, coughing up sand and minute bits of seaweed.

Caroline's crossing her legs at her ankles and leaning back on her elbows, enjoying the morning breeze on her cheeks. Her hair's in a tight braid down her back and her skin glows like she's been in the sun for a while.

"You look pathetic," she announces.

"Go on, judge away," Damon responds sulkily, still spluttering on the sand. "Shame turns me on."

When he's done picking out bits of rock from between his teeth, he lays back, hands crossed behind his head. Neither of them say anything as they try to differentiate between the edge of the world and the never-ending sky.

The sun's not out yet, and the sky's a magnificent shade of pink and orange. With the waves lapping at their bare feet and sand underneath their elbows, Damon sighs again, a resigned one, and asks, "How'd you find me?"

"Klaus," Caroline replies simply.

"...Okay," Damon says, a frown fusing his eyebrows together. Because that's not weird at all. "How did _Klaus_ find me?"

A shrug. "Katherine."

He groans. Of course. "In case the letter I left behind stating, and I quote, _Bye guys, I'm leaving forever and so totally do not want to be found_ wasn't enough of a hint for you, it meant I was leaving forever and so totally do not want to be found."

"Because that's really the mature way to go," Caroline quips, rolling over to face him.

"I have every right to kick you off Feather Duster Island, you know." He turns away so he won't have to look at her face. "Just try me."

The blonde raises an eyebrow. "_Feather_ _Duster_ Island?"

"Hey, I found it—I have every right to name it whatever the hell I want," he grouses, his cheek to the sand. "Why are you here, anyway?"

Caroline's bending over him, biting down on her lower lip. "Elena sent me. Sent a bunch of us, actually," Caroline admits, pulling something out of her backpack. "She didn't see any other way—the invitations she's been sending have been bouncing back."

"Invitation? What do you mea..." Damon trails his eyes downwards at the envelope in her hands, and before Caroline can hold it out to him, force it into his hands even, he's already blurred to his feet and running away from her, away from the envelope, at 180 miles per hour.

**0960**

"_Damon fricken Salvatore!"_

Caroline's running as fast as her feet can take her, but Damon's about 146 years older than her, prefers not to stick to a bunny diet, and ultimately faster. She curses the back of his head and kicks sand under her feet from trying to catch up to him.

"Just leave me alone!" Damon yells over his shoulder, skirting around the mouth of the jungle and taking a sudden turning. Caroline barely has enough to gasp before he's suddenly on her, pushing her face first into the sand with his calloused fingers.

Sand and swear words fall from her mouth, and she shoots a hand out to grab hold of his ankle before he can quite get away. He ends up toppling on top of her, kicking more sand into her face.

"_Did you know,"_ Caroline screeches as she manages to set both her knees on his chest, "how long it took me to get here? Six days, Damon. _Six days_."

Damon wrestles himself out of her grip and takes off in the other direction, but this time Caroline's close at her heels, screaming murder.

"Because it _turns_ _out_," Caroline continues, her voice rippling in the wind, "there aren't any boats that know the location of _Feather Duster Island_—" her lip curls, "—so I had to fricken _swim_ here."

"Next time, just tell Elena to send me a _Facebook invite_," Damon growls, digging his heels into the sand as he finally stops. There's an undecipherable look of utter madness in his eyes as he steps towards her. "Since apparently that's the only way I could find out she'd gotten _engaged_."

Caroline bends down, catching her breath—her human instincts getting the better of her. "Damon—"

"So excuse my French when I say you can fuck off with that stupid envelope," he all but yells over the sound of the wind, and turns his back on her. He hasn't even taken five steps until he hears a deafening sound in his ears and something wet and sharp thwacking the back of his head. He stills, narrowing his eyes. "You didn't..."

Damon whips his head around to see Caroline already throwing her arm back to launch another sand-ball at him. "Do you know how worried we've been, Damon? Huh?" She grunts as she hurls the glob of hardening sand straight at his face, but he ducks just in time.

"Stefan's in Tokyo looking for you. _Tokyo_." She scoops up another load of sand in her fists. "Ric hasn't left the boarding house in two months, just in case you decide to come back for your stuff."

"You don't do that to the people who care about you," she says.

"You don't expect them to just stop caring just because you're selfish enough to disappear," she says.

"Just because you're selfish enough to run away," she says.

"Just because you're not enough of a man to allow Elena this one moment of happiness," she says, finally reaching him and slamming more wet sand onto his chest. "I booked a thirteen hour flight to get here. Spent two days combing the mainland looking for you. _Swam _here, not knowing if you were going to be here, but hoping—" Caroline grips his soaked shirt in her hands, blinking furiously, "—just _hoping_ you would be, anyway."

Damon sighs. "Caroline..."

"Stefan's been a wreck for three months," Caroline finishes quietly, pulling out the crumpled cream envelope again. "If you're not going to do this for Elena, at least do this for him."

An obscure sound—a mixture between a groan and a very exasperated banshee-like shriek—rips from the back of Damon's throat as he acquiesces, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. After a while, he takes the envelope Caroline's brandishing expectantly in his face and tears it open.

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**tbc**


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